Happy Days Are Here Again
by aylachekovmccoy
Summary: A quick little story about Sherlock returning from the 'dead' after his 'suicide' at the end of season 2. Not too long. Has some bad words and a bit graphic, but its just a small essay.


**Rating: T **because of language.

**PS**. I do not own these characters. At all. Not even a smudge.

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_**Happy Days Are Here Again**_

It has been a month since he died. A month since that horrid day. Whenever I close my eyes, I relive that moment.

Sherlock had left without a word, like always, but I sensed something was wrong. I went back to our flat, but he wasn't there. He had gone to face Moriarty. I knew where the building was. I jumped in a cab. I tried to get there as fast as I could. But it wasn't quick enough. When the building came into sight, I jumped out of my cab. My phone went off, and I answered. His wretched voice, wracked with sobs and grief, blared from my phone, telling me that he had invented Moriarty, and that he was a fake. But I don't believe him. He's a fucking genius. Sherlock didn't create Moriarty; he was just trying to protect me, like he always has. That bastard. The voice coming from my phone gave a final "goodbye" just as I spotted it's master, standing at the edge of a roof. I yelled at the man on top of the building, but he didn't listen. All I could do was watch in horror and fascination as the man jumped, as if gracefully swan diving into a crystal-clear lake off a wooden dock. His charcoal-black trench coat flapped around his thin, flailing body, standing out from the white 4-story building he had jumped from. He fell, down, down, rushing past the windows. I flinched as I heard the sickening crunch of his body when it slammed into the pavement.

Everything became blurry. The blood pounded in my ears. It couldn't be true. Please tell me I was hallucinating. I blearily walked forward, as if by instinct. A biker knocked me on the ground and my head slammed painfully against the cobblestone, but all I could do was worry about the body. I managed to stumble towards Sherlock, pushing my way through the crowd. Hands were pulling me back, a far-away voice telling me "Sir, stay back," but I pushed even harder. Sherlock, my one and only true friend, lay in a heap, mangled on the sidewalk in a puddle of blood.

"No, no, no," I groggily moaned. This couldn't be happening.

I opened my eyes. I was back in the flat that I had once shared with another man. I groaned and put my head in my hands, willing myself not to cry again. My tear ducks had to be empty by now.

"Fuck you, Sherlock," I grumbled into thin air. I pushed off the red floral-print armchair that had been set haphazardly in the middle of the room when I first came to 221B Baker Street. The crazy man who had offered me a place to stay two years ago had no furniture back then. God knows why. Around me and the chair were piles of boxes that hadn't been there a month ago. Sherlock had a significant amount of... stuff, accumulated from years of needing a 'fix' to help strangulate the ever-present boredom he felt in his mind. The body parts he had stored in the refrigerator started to smell, so I threw those out. But, there were so many bloody books, papers, random article clippings, and, of course, lab equipment. Luckily, the lab equipment was all clean. Who knows what the crazy twit had used them for. The bookshelves around me were now frighteningly empty, the mantel cleared of the skulls and candles, and the table in the middle of our—my living room was bare. The once busy flat was now a skeleton.

I didn't know what to do with Sherlock's crap. But I knew I didn't want to get rid of these boxes. While a lot of their content pulled up painful memories, keeping the boxes here gave me a small amount of hope that Sherlock could possibly be alive. Ridiculous, I know. Sighing, I resigned to simply take them to his bedroom and store them in the closet.

"Mrs. Hudson, could you make me a cup of tea?" I yelled down the hallway as I picked up the box nearest my left foot.

"All right, deary, but I'm your landlady, not your maid," she yelled back up. I knew I could always count on Mrs. Hudson. She was a dear old thing, friendly as can be. I reached Sherlock's room and turned the knob with quite some difficulty: the box was occupying both my hands, and I was too lazy to put it down. When I finally managed to get into the room, I stumbled into the darkness. The room smelled like Sherlock; a pleasant musky smell, sort of like an old book. Dumping the box on the ground, I turned on the light switch. The room lit up and I blinked in the bright light. Everything looked the same as it had the day Sherlock left: clean, and slightly barren, consisting of a mahogany wooden bed with a headboard, a certificate written in Japanese for who the hell knows what above his bed, and a small poster of the Periodic Table. Except... The white bed covers were bunched up on the right side of the bed. Had it been like that before?

"Hello? Anyone here?" I felt stupid for questioning the air, like I was one of those ghost hunters, or that dim-witted person in a horror movie. The room was silent, but it definitely hadn't been empty for the last month. I reached behind me for my gun, but, much to my dismay, all I felt was the contrast between my worn-down jeans and my flesh. _Damn_, I though, _forgot it, AGAIN. _I seemed to be doing that a lot lately. Slowly, I reached down with my left hand and rummaged through the box for something that would hurt or seriously maim someone. I felt something solid and heavy, and pulled my hand up. A skull with boundless, cavernous eye-sockets looked up at me. I groaned inwardly. It was sturdy, nonetheless, so I held up my weapon and slowly walked further into the room.

"Are you going to hit me with that?" A disembodied voice whispered behind me. I jumped, twirling around, heart beating in my throat, and raised the skull, getting ready for a solid strike on the intruder. A tall man stood about a foot in front of me, wearing a black trench coat, hands shoved in the large pockets, with black, curly hair framing his long, pale, almost skeletal face. A slight smiled played at the man's mouth, and his blue eyes crinkled at the corners, as if he were happy to see me.

"Sherlock," I said breathlessly, my voice cracking at the end, as if I were going through puberty all over again. I lowered my arm, unsure of what to do. Should I punch him or hug him? He had left me alone for a month, moping about like a lovelorn teenage girl. It would be the greatest thing in the world to punch this cocky-know-it-all, but a hug seemed suitable for the current situation. All I could do, however, was stare at him with my mouth a gape.

"John?" Sherlock looked at me worriedly, the smile fading from his face. I looked up at him, and I felt tears squeezing their way out of my eyes. I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him, burying my face in his chest. I felt like a child, but I was so glad to see him.

"John?" Sherlock asked again. I pulled away, wiping my tear-filled eyes with my right hand.

"Sorry, sorry," I said, smiling, voice shaky from overflowing emotions. "I'm just... happy you're alive." An awkward silence followed. Sherlock opened his mouth, as if to say something. But he hesitated, sucking in air between his teeth, and shut his mouth. I raised my eyebrows before turning to the brown, lifeless box that stood at attention next to the doorway, and placed the skull gently back into it. All the while, a million questions pressed against my cerebral cortex, all begging, like dogs at a dinner table, to be asked.

"How did you do it?" A silence followed my inquiry, and I turned to where Sherlock stood. He had that look on his face, the look that told everybody that a million images were sprinting through his magical mind palace. He stood motionless for just a few seconds more before jerking his head to gaze at me, and smiled a small, cocky grin.

"Elementary, my dear Watson, elementary." And with that, he walked down the stairs, shouting up a storm about a new case he had. I sighed, turned the light off, and followed him.

Hello! So, this was just a project for my (amazing) english class. I decided to put it up here because I felt proud of this one. I don't think I have any way to continue it because I am not the most spectacular mystery writer. But, let me know what you think! I gotta become a better write somehow ;p

-A


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